Vigilante
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: On the night James Gordon disappears, Henry Rice opens his eyes in the Narrows. He was beaten to a pulp and left for dead with no memory. All he knows is he has training no ordinary man has, and he wants to serve and protect.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Notes:** I am setting this story in the Nolan-verse but it's actual origins are in the best Batman comic book of all time, Batman Year One by Frank Miller. There is a direct link between Y 1 and Batman Begins. The later took major plot points from the former, and pretty much took its depiction of James Gordon straight from the pages. I read an interview one time with Chris Nolan that Garry Oldman's main selling point was that he looked so much like the artwork of David Mazzucchelli's Gordon from that comic book.

In that comic book though, James Gordon was almost as dangerous as Batman himself. He actually took down a Green Beret twice his size and muscle, stating it had been fifteen years since he had done it last. He even gave the man a baseball bat first! His combat experience was what allowed him to survive as the only honest cop in a corrupt city. I wore out my last copy of the book so I had to get a new one, I was rereading it and suddenly the plot bunny popped up.

If you take Gordon's restrictions away, his code of honor and belief in the system, but left his skills and training and instinct intact, what would you get? If he came into conflict with Batman, who would win?

Retrograde amnesia returns a mind to a former stage of development. Gordon was at one time in his life a warrior. The story has been writing itself, I was not sure I'd post it, but I was enjoying it so much I thought, why not.

This story is dedicated to the baddest ass cop in all fiction, and one of the best comic book characters of all time...Commissioner James Worthington Gordon

* * *

**Vigilante**

**Chapter 1**

**Who Am I?**

Raul Dominguez made his round through the free clinic 628 Delco Street in the Narrows.

He was only an RN but he was the closest thing the battered one story building had on a weekday night to a doctor.

He looked around the dank room with the peeling paint and out dated medical gear, sighing once again. This was no place to treat people; this was no way to treat people. This was the Narrows, if you could afford better you would never set foot here, but most people down here could not.

There was a snoring drunk sleeping off a binge in the corner, with a wounded leg from where he crashed through a plate glass window. A young Hispanic girl, whom nearly bled out from a botched self-abortion from a pregnancy she was trying to hide from her strict parents, whimpering on her cot in the corner. Raul worked his way through one after another sob story the next even worse than the previous.

Such as it was down in the Narrows.

With a sigh, he walked over to evaluate the newest patient. The older man came in nearly two hours ago, beat to a bloody pulp, with a head injury, suffering from symptoms of amnesia with no ID, and he had a bullet wound in his shoulder. If there was a bullet inside it would have to be removed and documented for the authorities, but the severe concussion was what gave Dominguez his biggest concern. The man, awakened every half hour since he came in, first aid for a concussion, seemed confused but mostly lucid. He complained about blurry vision. His face was severely swollen and puffy, but the volunteer nurse could not detect any fractures or broken cartilage in the x-rays. Lucinda had no official medical training or degree but he would trust her assessment over any doctor or nurse he had worked with.

This man's obvious fight injuries could mean anything these days.

Things had gotten even more dangerous in the Narrows in recent years after the great Arkham break out, and the gas, so this little clinic was seeing triage situations equivalent to a MASH unit in a war zone. They did their best for the patients but they had limited funding and had to contend with conveniently forgotten medical histories and lack of ID with their clientele. There was only one doctor that dared make the trip down to the sewer the old neighbourhood had become, Commissioner Gordon made sure that man was escorted by cops, and Raul was grateful for that. After what he had heard on the radio on his way, he wondered if that would continue.

It was all over the news, Commissioner Gordon was missing and feared dead, victim of an ambush just four blocks away from the MCU office in a parking garage. There were five injured or dying assailants, both officers body guarding Gordon were found dead at the scene, the man himself had vanished. Everyone knew in Gotham, a missing civil servant meant nothing good; it bothered Raul deeply that a man the calibre of Gordon would become yet another statistic. The city was still reeling from the Joker's carnage, and the death of Harvey Dent, and the disgrace of Batman, to have Gordon missing as well was yet another nail in the coffin of a city with the lid already closed. If a man like Gordon could not stay safe, what chance did any of the rest of them have?

The man on the cot barely stirred as Dominguez made his way to his side. He was not a tall man, and he seemed in reasonable shape with a lean, lanky build with toned muscle that showed under the hospital gown. The nurses had to shave parts of his hair to check for lacerations, since his hair was clotted with blood, he gave them permission to shave the rest, the only hair left was on his chest and arms, his eyebrows and a thick brown moustache and the makings of a scraggly silver shot beard covering his chin. Under the hair on his left bicep Raul saw a Special Forces tattoo as he looked for distinguishing marks in case he had to make a report to police later. The man's hands were bandaged already, his knuckles deeply bruised and torn when he arrived. He had a possible cracked rib on his left side and a bruised kidney judging from the blood in the urine.

He was in short, a mess. Raul was shocked that this man was able to stumble in under his own power.

From the information on the chart, he discovered that the mystery man had a strong heartbeat and healthy blood pressure, so that was in his favour. Raul was reaching down to check the bandage over his right shoulder when a vise-like left hand shot out and grabbed his forearm before Raul could even flinch. He would have bruises there later; the intense blue-gray eyes bored into him, as if assessing him as a potential threat. Raul saw the muscles under the man's skin, and the reflexes were lightening quick, he had no doubt that this man was dangerous if he needed to be. He was about to call for a nurse to bring a sedative, but the grip loosened and the hand dropped back to his side.

"Sorry if I startled you, sir," Raul managed to say with a tiny squeak in his voice.

"It's okay. Sorry about your arm," the man replied in a raspy voice.

Raul checked the bullet wound and found the exit hole in the back, he needed to x-ray it later for bullet fragments, but it seemed to be okay. The man hissed a little bit as he explored, but with the pain he was under, that being the only indication was nearly super human. This was looking at a warrior of some kind, judging from the puffy bruised face; until the swelling subsided there would be no way of identifying him by picture.

Raul got the impression that whoever this man was, he had seen too much of the world. Even though he was a walking wound, he slipped back into sleep easily.

The cranial x-ray showed a significant head injury in the back, the brain looked bruised but the skull was intact. The need to sleep might be a symptom of the concussion, and yet, the man looked worn out beyond the beating, haggard even. Whoever he was, he had been under tremendous pressure, recently. Possibly by the people who beat him to a pulp?

Raul could speculate all night but the bottom line was he had more patients to see. He made a note to get DNA and fingerprints for a match later. The clothing the man was wearing was unsalvageable from harbour water, blood and being torn to shreds, but it looked like it was once a suit and tie. That was not wino attire. Someone would be looking for him somewhere.

Truth be known, Raul wanted to get this man out of his ward and downtown away from his patients, the last thing he needed was the individuals that caused all of this damage coming here to finish what they had so ably started.

He did however get the feeling from the physical potential in the man's body, and that tattoo, that not all of the blood that was on that man's hands was his own, and he was looking at a man who could handle himself.

"Welcome to the Narrows, John Doe," he mumbled as he filled out the chart noting the last time the man woke, so someone would know to wake him in a half an hour. He sighed resignedly and moved on.

-

Batman sat in the darkened newly revamped Batcave. Around him in large banks of technology was the most advanced computer system in Gotham, there was equipment everywhere in racks and space age compartment, a far cry from his first haphazard attempt at a lair. He could sit there and feel the comfort he derived from the sense of purpose the place represented, but tonight the cowl was off and he just felt cold. On the console in front of him was two objects, he was looking at a pair of broken glasses with a spot of blood on the lens. The computer had just confirmed the blood was James Gordon's.

"I know you are nocturnal Master Bruce, but could you put on some light for the rest of us?"

Alfred made his way down the towering staircase cautiously, then more boldly as Bruce with a spoken word turned on the overhead lights.

Alfred studied his charge with a look of deep concern. "Have you discovered what became of Commissioner Gordon, Sir?"

Bruce glanced up. _Rachel, Harvey, now Jim? What is happening to this war?_

"I studied the crime scene, it was a very clever and orchestrated ambush, I was distracted by a false alarm across town, all I know, wherever Jim is, he did not go there quietly." Bruce sighed shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm afraid I've created two more orphans, Alfred, if Gordon had never met me, Jimmy, and Babs would still have their dad."

Alfred's face showed that he wanted to dispute Bruce, but the older man seemed to give it up as a lost cause. He just nodded to himself. "Well sir, when you are done with the self-recrimination and tire of brooding, try to recall that at the moment there is no body, so there is still hope. If anyone can find the man, you can. I have prepared a pot roast for dinner; it will be in the warmer, good night."

Bruce favoured him with a wry smile, which Alfred answered with a knowing smirk before the dapper man made his careful exit.

Bruce felt a deep sense of despair. Not just for possibly losing an ally, but for losing a man who he respected deeply, and always felt was as close as Batman could ever get to a friend. It was more than that, however. Gordon was a good man, like his father Thomas Wayne, he was someone who gave Bruce a moral compass and perspective, who let him know when he was over the line. He had brought Bruce back from the ragged edge more than once; fulfilling an opposite role to Henri Ducard.

Alfred was right, until Bruce found a body, or saw one laid out on a slab, he could not give up hope, but at this point, it was not looking good. If someone had succeeded in taking out Jim Gordon, they would have the entire GCPD down on their heads. Most of the old timers would have taken a bullet for Jim, and the younger officers and rookies were willing to follow the man into the fires of Hell with a water pistol if he had ordered it. If a body turned up, all of the Gotham underworld would have a headache by the end of the week. It made more sense to dispose of the body. Bruce's money was on a mob owned crematorium, which was the preferred method of the local families.

His head found his hands. The feelings were overwhelming him. His mother and dad where dying in front of his eyes once again, but this time there was no kind-hearted honest cop to get down on his level and assure him that he would be okay, this time he was on his own. He thought of how the city had come to rely on Jim Gordon in the intervening months when he was the only beacon of hope left in the weary city. Batman had watched from a distance as Gordon worked even longer hours, was subjected to even more stress, and saw him as he began to crumble under the relentless pressure of it all. The normally neat, trim man looked haggard, and worn out, had stopped shaving and resting.

It was to be expected.

Soon after Harvey Dent took his family hostage, his floundering marriage collapsed and his wife left him in Gotham, moving back to Chicago with the kids. That blow was almost too much for the Commissioner. Batman had nearly come out of hiding to make sure Gordon knew he was not alone, but he decided not to, he knew James would consider it too big a risk and would be angry with him for doing so. He would just be adding to the ordeal.

The recent death threats were icing on the cake. They had been getting progressively worse, but Jim seemed to be getting even bolder and more cavalier about it as if he felt he had nothing to lose.

Who could blame him?

Gordon had lost his family, been force to hunt down his main ally framing him for something he did not do, buried a man in whom he had placed his hope for the future, and lost a dear friend in Rachel Dawes because he was seconds too late. All in all, a lesser man would have crumbled long ago.

The real clincher was that Gordon and Batman had been looking in the wrong direction for the threat.

The other object on the console was a bullet Batman had pried out of a pillar across the parking garage, and like the blood-spattered glasses, it also had Gordon's blood on it; having traveled through Jim's body after penetrating his bulletproof vest. He had a very good reason to think that piece of evidence would have been misplaced. That bullet was Teflon coated, and police issue.

The false alarm that took him across town was a bank job that looked like the Joker's signature. Very few people knew those details, all police related. Gordon was trying to meet with Batman about a piece of evidence he had uncovered, he had used some of the old channels, they had agreed on a meeting that night. Whatever that evidence was, James Gordon might have just lost his life for it.

Bruce sighed. "I'm so sorry Jim, I wasn't there."

-

The mystery patient transferred out of the clinic and down to the new Gotham General. The police had been notified, but because of the massive manhunt currently underway, the vagrant was low priority, no officer came for days. The police force was looking for a middle-aged Commissioner with brown hair, a mustache, not a bald aging mystery man with tattoos, and a beard whom obviously got his injuries by fighting. The DNA evidence was collected from the man for identification purposes, but no one passed it on up the line due to the backlog of the newly relocated patient load and the brand new hospital. The man fell through the cracks.

Since he had no medical insurance, John Doe was treated, clothing for him was found through a local charity, and discharged after four days with the number of a social worker and a local halfway house in his pocket.

His memory still had not returned.

In the intervening weeks, he had snippets of images. Of two happy kids who smiled at him, of a haggard tired looking woman with a perpetual frown, he awoke from those dreams in a room full of beds and other homeless men, feeling bereft and strangely helpless. Those were the nice dreams. He could not count the amount of times he awoke in a cold sweat stifling a cry from barely recalled images of swirling horrific violence. Whomever he was before, it was not a happy life, he knew that much.

The over-worked social worker assigned to his case, Carol Dayne, gave him some leads on a job, and as much encouragement as she had time for, which was around three minutes. With no history or social security card, he did not qualify for financial aid, so he found work as a janitor at a local community center and gymnasium on the edge of the Narrows. He took the name Henry Rice, two names he picked at random out of a phone book. He completed his physical therapy for his shoulder, but continued to work out in the gym after hours, as long as he got his work done, they did not seem to mind. He realized that he was in better shape than most people he saw in there. He had little else to do with no history, family or friends but work on his body, so he took to it with a will.

Somehow, he felt he was better off not knowing who he really was, he sensed that knowledge led to unhappy things. His present life was solitude, and simplicity, he believed his memories would eventually come back as he was told in the hospital, but he felt no sense of urgency. Those children he saw in his mind's eye, names just beyond his reach, he hoped they were okay, and he wished he could remember for their sakes, but he felt he was somehow endangering them with his presence; maybe it was better for them he was not there.

His beard filled out and he kept it neatly trimmed it was scratchy at times but he kept it, his bruises faded, when his brown hair grew back in, he kept it close shaven and under a toboggan cap. He found an apartment that matched his budget. Figuring out he was legally blind without glasses, the hospital had set him up for a charity eye clinic, and there he was given contacts for his eyes instead, since they are actually cheaper. He was unrecognizable to the man that stumbled into the Delco Street Free Clinic. Somehow, he knew that was a very good thing.

He kept to himself at the gym, trying to be unobtrusive, but more than one person noticed the quiet handsome man with the mop bucket, and of the shape, his body was in underneath the t-shirt and jogging pants he customarily wore when he worked. In the first month of employment at the gym, he wound up averaging five phone numbers a week, some from women, and some surprisingly from men. He just gave them a lopsided grin and pocketed them to be nice, throwing them away at the end of the day. Whoever that frowning woman was in his dreams, he sensed she would not be happy with him if he cheated, and with men? Nah!

He found the television news upset him.

He would hear of rising crime rates, a new Commissioner who commentators seem to think was a politician instead of a cop. The speculation over the previous Commissioner's whereabouts, a tired looking man with glasses whose picture they flashed on the screen from time to time. They speculated about the absence of Batman, and the failure of a special taskforce to capture the disgraced vigilante.

The image that Henry found most disturbing was of the smirking man in clown makeup aping for the camera. They called him the Joker, recently, classified as insane and locked up in the newly renovated Arkham Asylum that face had upset Henry and gave him nightmares so disturbing that he decided no more news for him. He had a hunch that he knew more about that clown than he really wanted to know. He began having nightmares about a man wearing a strange dual covered suit, and a weird metallic ringing noise he could never identify.

He would have stayed that way indefinitely, but one day he got a very big piece of the puzzle that was his memory, back.

The gym hosted several local programs, of which was a self-defence course taught by a big burly black man named Clarence Book.

The man was well over six foot, and moved big slabs of muscle around easily as if he was much smaller. He was gentle with his demonstrations when he needed to be and brutal when he had to be. He made sure that no one fought above his or her level. He and Henry were nodding acquaintances for the most part.

One day Henry was called in to mop up a puddle of sweat caused by a match that left the mat. He set about his work in silence with his back to the group, he was not even paying attention.

One of the older students spied him and wanting to prove himself in front of his friends and a couple of giggling girls, decided to prove his ability to pull a punch by scaring the janitor. He tapped Henry on his shoulder.

"Hey janitor dude." His buds guffawed as Henry rested his mop in the bucket and turned around.

The teenager's fist shot out at Henry's face intending to stop it an inch from his nose to make the man flinch, but instead the young man's fist smacked into Henry's intercepting palm. With a deft turn of his wrist, the young man was on his knees. Henry let go as soon as he realized what had happened. The pack of boys got angry at what they saw as an attack. Hormone driven teenagers are not the most logical creatures after all, so all four of them attacked at once.

Clarence heard a commotion and saw the older janitor take one of his best young pupils to his knees in seconds. He saw the other boys tense up and he had just begun to jog across the room when he realized the whole affair was already over. All four boys were picking themselves up off the floor; the janitor looked more disturbed by the whole affair than the boys were.

"You all are kicked out of my class for a week, we talked about rough housing. You're lucky this man here has some self-restraint; I could be scrapping you all up off the floor. I thought I taught you not to use your training for playtime! " They all filed out with their heads lowered in shame, glancing at the janitor as they left without protest, cradling their wounds. They were thoroughly whipped and they knew it. It was not sullen anger they watched the man with, but respect.

Henry just casually moved the bucket over to the new slick spots and got back to work. Clarence saw the Special Forces tattoo on the man's bicep, the rare unit insignia was one he recognized, he swallowed.

_Those kids are lucky to be alive! _He had another thought on top of that one. He had seen those same moves before, it was dark and rainy, but he had seen a man use those same moves to take out four armed men at one time in his old neighborhood.

He had to see if he was right_._

"That goes for all of you. That's a good place to stop. See you all Thursday." Clarence's class departed, buzzing about what happened.

Henry finished and began to roll his bucket out.

"Don't you think we need to talk about this?" Clarence called.

Henry glanced up long enough to say, "Nope."

Clarence stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I want to know whose around these kids, so you're gonna talk to me.

Henry went to remove his hand and Clarence made a sudden move to restrain him, there was a rapid-fire flurry of moves and counter moves. Clarence was physically bigger which gave him a built in advantage, and he was also younger and highly trained, but that did not matter. Soon he was down on his knees being held in check with his arm twisted nearly to the point of dislocation.

"Don't you want to know who you are, man?" Clarence gasped.

Henry blinked as if coming out of a trance. "No," he said as he released Clarence's arm and began to walk away.

Clarence called out. "There's only one man I've ever seen that could do what you can do."

Henry stopped. He tensed up waiting.

Clarence got to his feet, his arm was sore but Henry had showed remarkable restraint in that he did not have any other injuries. "I know those moves, very few people in the world know that martial art you're using, I've only heard about it. The only man I know of in this town that uses it's not been around for months, so if you don't remember who you are, maybe that's because you're him."

Henry turned his blue-gray eyes cold and dispassionate. "Who? Who am I?"

Clarence smiled. "I think you're the Batman."

* * *

**Next time...**

Henry decides what to do with his abilities, and moves toward some sense of purpose in his shadow existance. Batman, however, begins see the tip of the iceberg of what's really going on and tries to find a new source within the police force.

Who is the Mummy?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter notes: **I probably started this story too early, I intend to finish it but I have a two monster series that are eating up my time. I still have this one plotted out and will get it finished but for the two people that reviewed you have my apologies.

If nothing else this story answers the question, if you take the Commissioner out of James Gordon what do you get?

I will try to get chapters out faster, they will be a lot shorter than I had intended but eating the elephant one bite at a time will help me to not get overwhelmed. Thanks for patience!

**Bart**

BTW: Batman does belong to DC Comics...blaa blaaaa blaaaaa!

* * *

**Vigilante**

**Chapter 2**

**The Mummy Lives**

Henry dragged himself out of his small bed, and swung his legs over the side careful not to hit the wall in his small cubby of a bedroom.

He was stiff and sore, felt a deep bruise on his left shoulder, and maybe some more in his lower back. He was getting too old for this, even if he did not know exactly how old he was.

For the first time since he opened his eyes in that Narrows clinic, he felt alive.

His mind ran back across the last few weeks.

-

After Clarence had made that pronouncement to him about his possible origin, he had scoffed and walked out to finish his rounds. In the next few days, it never left his mind. Clarence somehow found his apartment the next day and arrived to talk with him again.

"Man, I know this is a lot to take in, but all I'm saying if you are the Batman then this city needs you. No one else can do what you do. So why don't we talk about at least."

Henry did not know why he did it, maybe it was the fact he was getting tired of a meaningless existence, or he was just…ready.

He found a library with free internet, paid a small fee and found he knew how to use the thing. Yet another surprise gift from his unknown past. He entered the search, Batman, and was flooded with articles, blogs, and even amateur video, some of which were obviously faked, but one, he had a hunch, was not.

It showed grainy footage of a group of men all armed and this dark shadow dropping out of the sky into their midst, Henry felt a chill go up his spine when he recognized some of the moves being used. The way he engaged one side, but used the attacks of the other sides to facilitate his attacks against others in the circle, it was like water flowing, like a ghost. They did their best to hit it and even when they connected, the shadow rolled away from the blow and struck out against another target. It was over in less than a minute.

He watched the clip several times, but he always concluded, _I move like that, I might be the Batman!_

As winter progressed, he had acquired a over coat from good will, and a battered fedora hat to cover his buzz cut head, he wore it as he made his way to the bus stop. At the last moment, he decided to get some milk for breakfast, so walked into a convenience store averting his face from the cameras without thinking about it.

The teenage clerk barely looked up from her heated phone conversation, he only caught bits, and she was saying "like" a lot, it was almost indecipherable.

He was nearly back to the freezer case when the door burst open, and two men came in. She let out a screech.

Henry ducked down behind the aisle, operating on autopilot. He was barely thinking, just reacting. He felt a need for disguise so he grabbed an ace bandage from the small store of medical supplies while the larger of the two men demanded her to open the cash register; he was expressing anger that she could not remember the code. Henry felt in his bones that this was about to get ugly, the two men had not bothered with masks, that was a very bad sign for the girl. He finished wrapping his head leaving just a slit for the eyes; he found some medical tape and wrapped his fingers so he would leave no prints, taking just a minute. He put the fedora back on his head. He stood and started down the aisle in one motion, the tape in his pocket.

The other gunman was watching the door believing them to be alone. The lookout was just starting to turn when with a brutal punch Henry took the man down, Henry turned to the other robber threatening the register girl, and he was bringing his weapon around, the shock of Henry's appearance causing him to hesitate just long enough. Henry grabbed the weapon out of his hand and spun into him using the butt of his own weapon to knock him out.

Henry hastily used the medical tape to bind their hands and ankles. He reached out to the discarded cell phone that the clerk had dropped on the counter in her terror. "You might want to call your friend back later; I think 911 is the next number to dial."

She took it from his hands, trembling. He went back and got his milk, placing money for it and the medical supplies on the counter, stepping over the moaning would be robbers on his way out.

"Wait," she called, "who are you?"

Henry called over his shoulder. "Nobody."

He took off before the sirens he heard in the distance got any closer, dumping the ace bandage and the tape into a dumpster two streets over.

-

He made it home and turned on the news to see the headline, "Who is the Mummy?"

There was grainy footage of him entering the store but it just caught the corner of his bearded jaw. Then the entire intervention replayed several times in fragmented black and white, Henry never realized how quickly he had moved. It all seemed slowed down at that moment, but in reality he had taken down two men in less than eight seconds. Henry felt a part of himself lament that eight seconds for two men was inexcusably slow. He found himself making plans to train more so he could improve.

_Improve? Am I planning to do this again?_

The tear-stained clerk was babbling thanks to the mystery man, explaining that she had a daughter to support. The two men he subdued had rap sheets that filled half a page, wanted in connection with a hold up that had ended in a blood bath the previous month.

_Yes, I guess I am doing this again._

The doorbell had rung at that moment. He answered it to see Clarence standing there looking excited. Wordlessly he stepped aside and let the man come in.

-

That had led to nights of patrols, wrapped in bandages to disguise his face and hands, with Clarence driving him around in his black Lincoln, letting him off and so he could move through the block and picking him up on the other side. They had developed a routine concentrating on the Hollows. He was starting to see _The Mummy Lives_ spray-painted over bat symbols. He did not feel he was replacing Batman, if that was indeed whom he really was, but continuing the work that man started.

Henry also had an uncanny ability to anticipate the movements and procedures of the Police. Several times, he had escaped their sweeps and attempts to capture him, almost as if he had written the book they were using.

Decried by some in the media, and praised by others; it was all irrelevant to him. He just wanted to protect lives, and help end the threat of crime. It was working because he found that some nights he could not find any criminals to thwart. This was a hard life, losing sleep and trying to look awake for his work at the gym. The sore muscles and bruises and occasional cuts did gang up on him at times, but it was a good life.

-

Bruce was reading yet another article about this Mummy vigilante operating in The Hollows.

He once again watched several clips of the man in action, some he had gleaned off the net, and others from the police mainframe itself. He knew he should look into this man, but he had other worries to take priority. The fact was this vigilante was not as those "Helpers" with hockey pads and shotguns he had to shut down, this man, obviously well trained, was not out for glory. He was doing a good job from what Bruce could see, and he had not yet seriously hurt anyone beyond what it took to dissuade them from their path. Bruce had seen that particular martial art before, it was a watered down version to one taught to him by Lady Shiva. She was its only proprietor; her disciples rarely survived her training. One of the few who did, taught a simplistic version of it to a very small branch of the American special forces with no affiliation with any of the four branches. Bruce had found Lady Shiva after learning the simpler version. This martial art, used for close quarter, multi-opponent fighting, and the mystery man was extraordinarily proficient already and improving with every outing. If Bruce found a reason to take the man down, it would be a difficult fight indeed. If nothing else, Bruce needed to meet this man someday soon to determine his motivation.

However, he had bigger problems to face. The ambush of Commissioner Gordon was taking interesting turns.

He traced the bullet to a clip used by SWAT tactical, signed out by an unknown officer in Internal Affairs. He also determined that Internal Affairs appointed Gordon's escort. He did a computer simulation, which showed that not the assailants, but Gordon himself, killed the two police officers escorting him.

Bruce had found the Lowjack tracking information for a vehicle stolen from that parking garage and found abandoned later that night, since they, would be ambushers, had their vehicle disabled by weapon fire. He then visually combed every warehouse down in that region of Gotham and found Gordon's discarded badge behind a crate under a window. A quick hack of police records found that there were three more bodies found in that warehouse four days after Gordon disappeared. There was a chair with restraints found on site. The new commissioner for some odd reason kicked up the case to…you guessed it, Internal Affairs.

All roads lead to Rome.

Bruce sensed that there was another hand behind the scenes. He needed eyes and ears in the police department, but he did not know whom he could trust.

Montoya, Bullock and Stephens were all under investigation by…once again IA, and Crispus Allen did not trust Batman at all, and was more likely to pull out a gun on sight. MCU was in disarray and something major was going down.

His computer let out a beep. It was from a program he was running searching all databases in the United States for DNA belonging to Commissioner James Worthington Gordon. His heart leapt in his chest as the information revealed that an amnesiac checked into the new Gotham General, referred by a clinic in The Hollows. His DNA, just now filed weeks later with the nationwide database.

Bruce realized if he was looking for this information, then someone else might think the same thing, this would be a lamp straight to the man. He reached out and with a few keystrokes made the information into a ghost for the nationwide database, but appear uploaded to the computers at the hospital.

If he was still alive, Bruce needed to find James Gordon fast!

* * *

**Next Time:** Batman meets Henry Rice, and the ball of yarn begins to unravel

Who is behind the corruption in IA? How far does it go?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:** I know this story is not updated very often, but I am determined to eventually finish it. So those of you that are actually reading please be patient.

I wanted to write this story as a study to the inner workings of Commissioner Gordon, who is he really underneath, what makes him tick, why does he allow for a Batman. I hope I am getting to the bottom of some of those answers.

I know my Urban lingo is probably going to be laughable, but I did my best. If anyone is offended just go easy on this white boy!

Batman and all his characters are owned by DC and not me

* * *

**Vigilante**

**Chapter 3**

**True Identity**

Theda made her way from the bus stop, it was only a half block from her door but she knew to get there as soon as possible.

An elderly black lady was not a rare sight in this part of town so she hope the jackals would ignore her long enough to get her cashed Social Security safe behind her thick wood door with its five dead bolts and chain.

She hurried along with her head down, suddenly she saw battered sneakered feet a few steps ahead blocking the sidewalk, her heart skipped.

"Hey there Miss Barnes," said a familiar voice that let her know that things had gone way south.

She looked up into the drug addled still young face of Garret Jackson, they called him G-Doc . He grew up in this neighborhood, now he terrorized it with his crew.

"Hey there, Garry, hows yo mother?" Theda said trying to keep her voice steady.

"Yeah, how's yer mom," called a laughing voice behind her.

They had closed in, she knew she had two options, give up her purse and hope that she could find welfare for rent and food for the next month, or fight and wind up in intensive care for that month so she would be out in time for the next check. Either way she was looking at miles of bad road.

She had one hope.

"These here streets are protected, y'all better just let me be," she declared with more confidence than she felt.

G-Doc's head tilted, showing his pierced ear to the light. "What you got in your purse, Miss Barnes, it's dat time of month ain't it?"

He closed in and she backed to the side against a parked car, seeing that two of his boys had closed in behind her.

"The Mummy gonna kick yer ass, Garry if you don leave now," she told him holding her purse protectively against her body.

_Please Lawd, let the man be out tonight!_

'The Mummy gonna kick yer ass, did you hear that?" said the chuckler.

Garry pressed up to her, his breath smelled like rotted meat sprinkled with sugar. "I got something for the dead man, if he hits my street, don you worry none, now I don wanna hurt my old neighbour so how about you gives us a peak?"

She readied herself for the beating to come, suddenly the streetlight close by shut down. They alternated on a set schedule to save power for the city, so the boys did not pay it mind, but Theda had a feeling.

"So, what's it gonna be?" Gary repeated in a reasonable tone.

"Don't think so, Garry," she replied with a big smile.

Garry suddenly turned and fired a pistol he had been secreting, three times.

The body he fired into was standing over his two unconscious partners and he hit the man dead center.

It knocked him back a few steps.

Theda gasped. It was the Mummy all right; he stood there in the half shadow, his bandaged face showing under his hat.

G-Doc laughed. "Yeah, I gotchu, Mofo, lez see you fight with three caps in ya!"

The Mummy stood there still like a statue, then a low chuckle emanated from the dark slit that must be his mouth.

Theda had never heard such a sound, even though he was her salvation she felt fear, that laugh had no business coming from a man who had just been shot three times.

G-Doc's eyes went white, he raised the gun to empty the clip but The Mummy closed the distance so fast that his shot chipped the sidewalk.

He took his time with G-Doc, left him in a quivering whimpering mess when he was done. Theda tried to ignore the sounds, but she found herself flinching at every thud and cry of pain.

The Mummy bent down, with a few twists he left the would be mugger curled on the ground ankles and hands tapped together dropping his gun into a garbage can a few steps away.

He made his way to Theda. She tried not to flinch but it was hard not to.

"You are safe, call 911," came the dry papery whisper.

"Thank you," she replied, but the street was already deserted, the street light came back on showing the other two thugs looking as bad as G-Doc.

She dug in her purse and pulled out her pre-paid cell, making the call.

Her eyes found a spray-painted tag on a wall on the adjacent building.

_The Mummy Lives_

"Yes he do," she murmured to herself, "Thank tha good Lawd!"

---

Up on the fire escape, another shadow that disengaged and made its way to the roof, it crossed from rooftop to rooftop, following the figure below.

His target was careful, doubling back and checking his trail several times, he made his way to a street corner, a big black car paused with the passenger side door open, he was in the door before car came to a stop at the corner and proceeded to the bridge leading out of the Hollows.

A dark vehicle parked a few alleys over cranked to life and the shadow dropped into it from three stories up; it followed the other vehicle whisper quiet.

---

Henry was gasping as he removed the bandages and hat.

Clarence checked is friend with deep concern. "You okay, man?"

Henry turned and pulled open his black shirt showing a Kevlar vest underneath; it had three bullets trapped in the weave. "The vest held, but I have a bruised sternum at the very least," Henry replied with a wheeze.

"You need a hospital?" Clarence replied as he navigated the streets.

"Home, take me home, I'm fine," Henry replied in a suspiciously strained voice.

His friend nodded and soon he was pulling up at the curb in front of his apartment building. Henry exited. "See you tomorrow."

Clarence watched Henry as he walked to the steps. He regretted that all this was his idea sometimes, but he knew that little lady that Henry saved tonight would tell others, and those thugs that he put down would also spread the word. He was seeing The Hollows showing signs of life, all because the man, who was leaning against the door before ascending, put himself in harm's way.

What scared Clarence was that Henry was not supernatural, and if he was not going to keep this up forever, no man could.

He put the car into gear and drove off.

---

Batman sat in his newly refurbished Batmobile and stared at the image of the man that exited that car.

He was silent debating what to do about this man.

The work he was doing was systematic and intelligent it was almost as if he knew the structure of the streets. Batman recognized some of his own techniques in the man's behavior as well. The concealment, the theatrics, he could have avoided those bullets, Batman had seen enough to know that much, but he absorbed those slugs and shrugged them off to grow his legend. Those techniques were similar to the ones Batman acquired from the League of Shadows.

On the other hand, this man was endangering himself and should he run out of luck someday, and was unmasked, the damage to the psyche of the Hollows residents would be devastating.

He sent the cars video feed to the Cave for analysis as well as the name off the mailbox to the apartment that just lit up...Henry Rice.

He had things to do so he drove off in a cloud of swirling papers. He was searching the database of Gotham General for the John Doe with Jim Gordon's DNA signature and found a referral to an overworked social worker by the name of Carol Dayne. Her files at her office transferred when she quit in frustration earlier that month. Her new files were incomplete because she shredded one of her cabinets before escorted out by security. There were some charges pending, and a court ordered psych evaluation.

She was under observation but allowed to live at home, where she lived with her husband and two teenagers.

The home was in the suburbs of the East end of Gotham, Dayne's husband was a litigator for a law firm with ties to Mob interests. The two-story Cape Cod was well appointed and neat. The garden out back showed recent additions and use, Dayne's therapy most likely.

She was seated in the sealed in sun porch drinking wine and staring out at the night, Her husband was still at the office, Batman had a hunch that part of her break down might have had something to do with the man's close relationship with the secretarial pool.

The two Dayne teenagers were in their own worlds, since they were teenagers Batman could have thrown their mother over his shoulders strolled a victory lap around the home with her kicking and screaming and unless a neighbor intervened there would be no 911 call until they got hungry or needed an article of clothing washed.

He slipped through the shrubbery after setting off a hypersonic noise meant to dissuade any canine from protesting. He crept up to the sun porch trying to think of a way not to disturb the fragile woman.

"I am not here to hurt you..." he whispered.

She started her eyes widening, but the affects of too much wine doused her protests. "What do you want?"

Her fear revealed that she had some knowledge of her husband's dealings, and was halfway expecting some attack someday.

"I need information; you are the only person who can provide it."

She stared out into the darkness in the wrong spot missing Batman's concealed form. "Are you the Batman? I never believed that garbage they said. What information?"

"Amnesiac…came to you nearly two months ago, brown hair and blue eyes early to mid forties, in good shape, probably had some sort of facial hair, and his voice might have sounded familiar."

Even inebriated she immediately recalled the man. "You forgot good looking! The ass on that man!" she said with a giggle that threatened to become hysterical, "I was thinking about telling him he was my lost husband and seeing how far I could go!"

Batman rolled his eyes in the darkness. "Did he choose a name?"

"No, not when I knew him, I encouraged him to choose one for the time being, open a phone book at random," she replied sobering up. "He had these haunted eyes; he was beat to a pulp so I thought better of getting involved."

Batman closed his eyes in frustration. "How about job referrals, do you remember any?"

She sipped her wine as she thought about it. "It was two months ago, I've had a bad time since then."

Batman considered what he knew of Jim Gordon, whom the man was deep down underneath even with amnesia. "Did you have a job referral to a gym or some place that offered physical exercise?"

She perked up. "There was a community center, right on the edge of the Hollows, it was called…ummmm."

"Ronald J. Klein gymnasium, the kids call it the Ron J?"

That's the one, they needed a janitor, they found somebody, I don't know if it is the man you are looking for," she concluded.

Batman was about to fade into the shadows when she added, "he was a gentleman with me, I got eyed a lot in my job, men who need social work aren't usually very refined, but he never even looked at me that way, that's why I remembered him. You are going to help him?"

"Yes."

She did not bother looking out into the darkness; she knew he was already gone. She finished her wine and went back into the house.

---

He was back in the Batmobile, something was tugging at his mind. Something about his thoughts of Jim Gordon's primary make up.

"Computer, search Henry Rice using the template I gave you earlier."

::RECORDS SHOW HENRY RICE, NO SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, NO TAX RECORDS, NO CREDIT HISTORY::

"Computer, bring up picture taken earlier this evening, choose profile and portrait, extrapolate to the template of James Worthington Gordon footage."

He watched in silence as the photo archives accessed back in the cave and the searches conducted. A new template appeared as the two men were compared, the eye shape matched immediately, so did the ears, the jaw on Henry Rice was covered by the beard so it could not be verified and eye color was too dark to determine. Batman asked for an adjustment to the nose to account for a recent breakage and heal, the nose matched soon after, and the conclusion flashed on the screen.

:: POSTULATION COMPLETE: POSSIBILITY HENRY RICE AND JAMES GORDON SAME MAN: 82.785%::

Occam's Razor, it was there in front of Batman all along. Even with amnesia, James Gordon was going to find a way to serve and protect. The conclusion was clear, until Batman could be sure of the conspiracy he was going to need to leave Jim where he was. Even though his current lifestyle was dangerous, bringing him back before determining the mastermind that nearly killed him and how far it went was even more so!

"Computer, search Chicago area code for Barbara Gordon, former wife of James Gordon, I need the telephone number."

While the possibilities filled the screen, Batman thought grimily.

_I need him back as Commissioner, but will he ever forgive me for reminding him?_

* * *

**Next Time: **The stakes get raised on the Mummy. Batman begins to piece together the larger picture.

Is it time to bring James Gordon back from the dead? Will Henry go quietly?

**stay tuned!**

**Bart  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes: **I have been rereading several Batman comic books and have seen how different artists treat James Gordon. That is one haggard man LOL! You always feel like someone needs to give him a hug! No wonder there is so much slash out there!

I am finding the original interest in this story and I plan on riding it out for the four or more readers I still have for it. Ah hell, for me! I just want to see how this ends!

So hang tight things are about to get bumpy!

Batman and Jim belong to DC created by Bob Kane blaaa blaaa blaaaaaaaa!

**Bart**

* * *

**Vigilante**

**Chapter 4**

**Around The Corners**

Bruce sat quietly in the half dark of the cave, his eyes watching images on the screen. In one of his monitors, Alfred was descending with a determined look on his face and a tray of food. So, he lit the path for the man and went back to his contemplation.

"Master Bruce," came the quiet admonition as the elder man placed the tray beside him on the large console.

Wayne gave him a nod to indicate that he knew what he was required to do with the edibles.

Alfred's forehead wrinkled but the man turned with his customary grace and began walking away.

"Alfred."

"Yes Master Bruce?' the butler asked, subconsciously standing at attention.

"I need some advice." Bruce replied as he swiveled in the high back chair.

He indicated another chair, which he had made in case Alfred wanted to visit. His most faithful friend and mentor settled in with a concerned glance. Bruce was not in the habit of asking him his advice, yet another reason he offered it so readily.

Bruce had already discussed the Gordon situation with Alfred, and Alfred had agreed with his assessment to leave Gordon missing presumed dead until he could determine the corruption. Bruce launched right into his query.

He indicated a bank of monitors showing the Mummy's activities, and a few more monitors showing Commissioner Gordon in action. "I have studied the two men for hours, Alfred, I know that Gordon is still in there somewhere, but Henry Rice walks differently, his stance is unique, and the way he moves is different from Gordon. I've always known that Gordon has never truly reconciled that I am a vigilante, he is the most by the book man I know, and yet as a vigilante, he seems to be a natural."

Bruce indicated all the medical texts he could find in Wayne Manor's cavernous library, and the monitors that were displaying other texts that he had been consulting. "The nature of retrograde amnesia, which was the hospital's diagnosis, is that you are returned to a former state of development. It is like years are washed away from your persona, years that developed you into whom you are, but according to the texts there will always be a base personality that rings true from the original to the one that is created to cope."

"And?" Alfred encouraged.

Bruce shrugged. "What if the thing Gordon and I have always shared is that deep down in his own way he is a vigilante?"

Alfred leaned forward his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Then again, maybe the link between you could possibly be that you are both deep down…police officers."

Bruce leaned back with a smile. "Good point."

Alfred leaned back similarly. "I know."

Alfred's eyes watched the screen. They grew curious. "You know, Master Bruce, he moves very much like you, his use of shadow and brutality is very familiar."

Bruce nodded as if the thought had already occurred. "It could be that I define what it means to be vigilante in the recesses of his mind, so he is using my methods. He is quick and decisive, he doesn't take chances and he does not use more force that he has to."

Alfred stood. "He remembers your work, Master Bruce; the real question is why does he choose to not remember his own?"

Bruce nodded, and his mentor began his ascent to the mansion above.

Bruce grabbed a roast beef sandwich and the bowl of Au Jus and went back to work as he munched. Alfred had a way of saying the right thing to spur his charges thought processes. The man was a resource which Bruce had thanked his father and mother for thousands of times over the years.

_The real question is why does he choose not to remember his own?_

Bruce went back to the larger question. What was happening in Gotham?

He was seeing two distinct patterns over lapping. There was an increase in violent crime, at the same time Internal Affairs crackdowns were handcuffing the Gotham PD from properly executing their jobs. The new Commissioner was really pushing the Batman taskforce so much that Bruce could not even stop a mugger without a half city chase.

It was a two front war, one ugly and venal, the other sophisticated and ironic. In a way, it was as if Ras Al Gul and the Joker had joined forces. The execution of these two conjoined manipulations was too subtle for the Joker, and too blatant for Ras. Bruce felt in his bones that this was someone new, someone who was combining the better elements of both, and adding his own flair for duplicity.

_I could really use your mind on this one, Jim._ He silently lamented as he stared at footage of his friend giving a press conference just days before his disappearance, a haggard man who must have felt the hostile forces surrounding him. That piece of information Gordan was carrying to Batman that night was the key, and locked up in his mind somewhere. If Alfred was correct, and Bruce had to admit the elder man often was, then James Gordan was using Henry Rice as a healing cocoon, a larval stage to grow strong, and to be, at least for a little while, the man he deep down wished he could be, rather than the one he was forced to become.

It was a Gordian knot indeed!

Suddenly the motion sensors that Batman kept on the roof of MCU in case Gordon needed a conversation triggered. He checked the as of late rarely used camera for the roof top and was surprised to see the three officers in Gordon's inner circle having a quiet impromptu meeting. He grabbed the digital headset and triggered the mike.

"If we get caught up here, Rene, it's our careers."

"I know, Stephens, don't you think I know that by now? I've been in Commissioner Bartlett's office more than his secretary getting his coffee here lately!'

"We all have, that's the problem, something ain't right, and that man ain't the Commish."

"I know Harv."

"You think he's still alive?"

Batman triggered the two-way. They needed an answer; he was going to give them one.

"He's alive, hold on," he said in the raspy voice he used as Batman. The hidden mic was part of his secret, Gordon wondered more than once how he could disappear so quickly, the answer was that he was never on the rooftop to begin with. He showed only when he felt Gordon needed to see him to keep his connection.

The three officers showed their ability, they were in crouches with guns drawn before his voice had faded.

"That you Bats?" Bullock called.

"He's already gone," Montoya replied for him. Her voice had a note that was not there when they first came to the roof. It was in the pitch and timber of her tone.

Hope.

"I knew it!" Stephens said in a barely restrained voice.

"Tha Commish is too hard assed to die," Bullock stated with his voice thick with pride.

They exchanged a glance and left the roof.

Batman leaned back in his chair with a content smile on his face. It was a small consolation but to a weary group of men, it was life. Now if he could only figure out what was really going on so he could rescue Gordon from his life of vigilantism. The man was wearing down if the previous night was any indication.

For the hundredth time he keyed up a replay of all the data he had so far collected.

---

Henry stood in his tiny shower stall, he was letting yet another stream of hot barely tolerable water beat upon his shoulders. He winced at pain his shoulder; there was no solution for it. He had been putting it off, with a vicious slam against the tile wall, and a small pop his shoulder popped back into joint from its partial dislocation. He stifled the cry of pain. He rested his forehead against the cool surface, and waited until the pain subsided.

Last night's patrol had not gone well.

He was slipping through a familiar block; one that he felt had become reasonably safe in the last month when he heard activity down a narrow alleyway. He took to the fire escape and looked the situation over, there were several gang members, Ace 88's they called themselves, they had a young girl surrounded and were making their intent clear.

In hindsight, Henry should have realized that a girl that young was not going to be out that time of night in that neighborhood unless she was a gang member's girl. She must have taken drama classes somewhere because she was good at playing damsel in distress.

Henry dropped down behind a dumpster and began planning his move when he felt the wrongness of the situation. He figured out the trap just before it closed on him. He picked up a discarded liquor bottle as three of the bangers turned with automatic weapons. With a well-timed throw, he eliminated the one bulb shining leaving the alleyway in darkness, a black that was immediately lit up by muzzle fire. They fired at the place he was, peppering it with spent shells, but he had leaped onto the dumpster and used the fire escape to swing forward, landing to the side. He waded into their flank, ducking several times as they nearly shot their own men in the frenzy to get the Mummy.

He managed to neutralize most of the gun wielders when his "damsel" hit him in the shoulder with a piece of steel rebar, he lashed out with a kick that sent her flying back into a cushion of garbage cans to her expressed disgust.

He knew the shoulder was hurt, and he ended the rest of the conflict as soon as possible. He was perhaps a bit more brutal than he wanted to be, but his odds for success had fallen drastically with his injury, so he had to leave as quickly as possible, he left some broken bones and unconscious men in his haste. His rebar wielding "bait" attempted to slide out of the alley realizing all was lost, she spent the next interim bound in the smelliest dumpster in the alley until the cops arrived.

It was spiteful, but because of her actions, Henry would have to take it easy for the next week, and who knows what would happen to the citizens of the Hollow in that interim.

He turned the water off and grabbed a towel, drying off and winding around his waist. He popped his contacts back in and cleared off the tiny mirror to access the damage.

There were bruises all over his muscular chest under the hair, including three dark round ones trailing across his breastbone from the bullets he took three weeks ago now. It still hurt to breath somewhat, he was lucky it did not snap his collarbone. He rotated his arm in the socket, he winced but it could have been worse, a partial dislocation was certainly not as severe as a broken arm or leg. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a small vial of Oxycodone that he had lifted from a dealer. He felt a little guilty about it, but he could not get a prescription without questions asked.

He swallowed them with a swig of water from his cupped hand, and rested with his forehead against the misted mirror.

He could feel it in his bones, this shadow life was ending, he looked at his reflection just now and almost knew what his name was. He found that if he was not paying attention he attempted to push glasses up on his nose. Little speech patterns found their way into his voice. Clarence told him he sounded like his cousin from Chicago.

He wondered if he was from Chicago, but every time he walked the streets of this city he knew he was home. The nightmares were frequent; the one with the shadowy half man was large in his mind. Something he had to know, something in the back of his mind that would not come to the fore, but the moment he nearly had it, it vanished.

Two things he knew. He was not a janitor, and he was not Batman.

He stared into the haunted blue eyes just beyond the mirror surface.

"How long you are you going to keep this up, old man?"

His shift at the gym started at 3:00, he had five hours to nap. He crept back out into his apartment, and curled up on the used couch that Clarence had helped him move in.

He hoped the dreams were of the children, he might not know their names but he missed them just the same.

---

The teenager escorted into the presence of the big man. The Ace 88's had put word out that they wanted information on the Bandaged Brawler. The money they were offering was more than his mom made in a month.

The man seated before him, in an old green lounger like a throne was X-Killer, the long time leader and one bad dude. He was old, nearly thirty, he had scars on his face crossing each other on his left cheek that came from the knife fight that won his position. The man leaned forward his dark eyes glittering. "You know who the Mummy is?"

"Janitor at the Ron J, he works out all de time, man, he tight. Took out me and about four of my homies in a fair fight. Never seen nothing like it. Took my teach down to his knees, he ain't no man to trifle with."

X-Killer stared at the young man, his gaze like a knife. "You know if you're wrong, I will come and find you."

"Yeah man, I know, I'm sure he your man!"

X-Killer leaned back with a content smile.

"Pay em, the Mummy dies tonight."

* * *

**Next Time: **The Mummy's last stand!

A legend will be made.

The return of James Worthington Gordon?

If he survives!

**Stay tuned!**

**Bart**


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